


Destroyer of Worlds

by Nahara



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Avada Kedavra, Bombing, Bookstores, Evil Voldemort, F/M, False Memories, Flashbacks, Gen, Horcrux Hunting, Horcruxes, Legilimency, POV Tom Riddle, Psychological Torture, Rise of Voldemort, Sexual Content, Violence, War, Wizarding World, World War II, Young Tom Riddle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-17
Updated: 2011-07-17
Packaged: 2017-10-21 11:54:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nahara/pseuds/Nahara
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A young man by the name of Tom Riddle left Hogwarts in 1945. For two years he worked for Borgin and Burke’s until he disappeared in 1947. These are the ‘lost’ years of a dark wizard, the years in which Tom Riddle takes the last steps to become Lord Voldemort. While researching the dark arts Riddle comes across a book about Legilimancy, about memory and madness. The book proves a catalyst for a series of events and Tom soon learns something extraordinary about the Muggle world…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Destroyer of Worlds

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that this is a dark fic with some heavy issues that my upset some readers, particularly around the depiction of psychological torture and the violence war.

  
_I am become death, destroyer of worlds . . ._

 

**September 1950: London, England**

 

The building was old. From the outside, it looked like nothing but a rundown bookstore which, quite frankly, was lucky not to have been bombed by the Luftwaffe. A sign hung above the door that read _The Black Stump Bookshop_ , written in peeling black paint.

Tom studied the shop from across the street, leaning against a lamppost. What an absurd place to have such a shop, he mused to himself, right out in Muggle view. Yet it was also an inspired idea. _The Black Stump_ wouldn’t be subjected to the frequent inspections by Ministry officials, like those in Knockturn Ally. Tom had only found out about it through an acquaintance in Rome.

He’d been away from Britain for over five years. Ever since he’d left _Borgin and Burke’s_ in ’47, he’d been travelling Europe, researching, studying, and biding his time. Now he was back. London had been levelled to the ground during that Muggle war and when Tom had last seen it the city still been picking up the pieces. The bustle was back now, though there was still something grim and heavy in the national identity.

Tom pushed away from the lamppost and crossed the street, minding not to step in front of any of the fume-spitting Muggle vehicles. Inside, the shop was dark and gloomy, the windows tinted with London grit. To Tom’s right was a desk with a scraggly, old wizard behind it. The man glanced up in suspicious surprise at Tom’s entrance, eyes narrowing.

“Jethro Stump, I presume?” Tom asked cordially.

The old wizard inclined his head. “Who’re you?”

“Marius Echo,” Tom lied easily. In time, everyone would know who he really was, but, for the moment, he wasn’t keen on being tracked.

“How did you hear of _The Black Stump_?” questioned the prickly wizard, not entirely thrilled with Tom’s presence.

“All roads lead from Rome.” Tom’s cryptic reply was delivered with a sardonic quirk of the lips. Jethro Stump’s eyebrows rose as understanding dawned. He chuckled briefly.

“Old bugger,” he whispered to himself. “Well, Mister… _Echo_ , is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

“A book on Legilimency. I was told you have quite a good collection on the topic.”

“A whole room. Just go up the stairs and turn left.”

Moments later, Tom found himself in a strange, lopsided little room towering with books. He’d expected a decent collection, but nothing quite this size. A sinister smile broke out on his handsome face. The boards beneath his feet creaked and wheezed as he methodically searched each shelf. Many of the books were theoretical or historical, and there wasn’t much in the collection that Tom didn’t already know how to do. He’d always been a good Legilimens. What he wanted was something… more, something that was not in these books.

Though vaguely frustrated, Tom wasn’t prepared to give up until he’d seen every last one. The smile he’d been wearing earlier turned into a sour, but determined, frown. It was as he was trailing his fingers along a collection of books stacked haphazardly in an alcove that his eyes noticed something new. It was a slim volume, bound in midnight-blue and the embossed title was faded silver. _Legilimency: The Last Road to Madness_ s by R. H. Magnus.

The room was far too small for a chair and table to fit in, so Tom sank gracefully to the floor, back against the alcove. The pages were brittle and yellowing, but the lettering was just as black as the day it had been printed. Tom began to read.

_Legilimency is commonly thought of as a form of mind reading, which to some extent is correct, though a true Legilimens will know that this is a gross generalisation. The process of deciphering another’s mind is complex and difficult in the extreme. Thoughts are not linear but, rather like dreams, are a dense mass of fragmented words, sounds, images, colours. One unused to such a barrage of stimulus would easily be overcome._

_However, for the sake of clarity, let us call this process ‘mind-reading’. When in another’s mind, it is easy for a skilled Legilimens to extract feelings and memories at will. Alternatively, one could insert new feelings and memories that do not belong to the host mind. I have often pondered on this aspect. It occurs to me that making small adjustments to another’s mind is simply one level of Legilimency._

_Now, if we take the ability of reading another’s thoughts and combine it with being able to add to their mind, you have a very potent combination. If one is able to delve deeply into hidden, perhaps painful, memories and then bring them to the fore while adding to them, then the Legilimens will have a unique upper hand. To be able to take someone’s darkest fear and illuminate it and embellish it, the effect is not unlike being confronted with a Boggart, but this technique can not be reduced to nothingness through laughter. If done well and done right, this could be a permanent change. One could send their victim quite literally insane with fear._

Tom flicked through a few more pages.

_Experimentation on human subjects has always been frowned upon; however, I believe Legilimency can only be understood to its full extent when in direct contact with humans. The mind of a rabbit or rat is nowhere near as complicated a place as a human’s, thus experimentation would be of little use. The best substitute for a witch or wizard is, of course, a Muggle. I have taken many test subjects from the dregs of Muggle society – those that wouldn’t be missed, and have used my cultivated Legilimency technique to experiment with the facets of the human mind._

What followed was a careful and detailed account of each victim and how they were sent to insanity. Some were harder than others, but they all succumbed. The author was clinical and aloof from his subjects; the only emotion that came through was his obvious passion for Legilimency. Tom read through the experiments with avid fascination. The technique wouldn’t be too hard for him to master, as he already had a strong grasp of the central methodology.

_To create insanity, one must enter into the mind as one would do in traditional Legilimency. However, instead of altering a few surface memories, one must dig back to the darkest and most protected recesses of their victim’s mind and use what is found there. Reaching this ‘dark-mind’ is not an easy feat. Passing through mental blocks is about as difficult as attempting to walk through a brick wall._

_In my experimentations, I have invented a spell simply for this purpose. The charm is a complicated medium between a forceful destructive curse, such as Deprimo or Confringo and opening spells such as Alohamora. For those already unstable of mind, this will work the first time. However, most people are able to hide behind walls, so the charm must be used multiple times until the ‘dark-mind’ is reached. It is what is found here that must be brought forward into the light, illuminating, and exaggerating the inborn fear of the subject. _

Tom closed the book with a snap. The light had gone dim, leaving Tom in near darkness. He’d been too engrossed to even mutter _Lumos_. Standing up, Tom stretched his long limbs and made his way down the creaking staircase, book in hand.

 

The Muggle bar was full. The air was stifling and confining. Tom was finding it hard to catch his breath. The smell of sweat and liquor assaulted his nostrils, making him wrinkle his nose in disgust. He made his way through the room carefully, squeezing past fat Muggle men, until he reached the bar. He asked for whisky. They wouldn’t have Firewhisky, damn them, but he hoped for something halfway drinkable. A tumbler was brought forward, and filled partially with a honey-coloured liquid. Tom directed a discreet charm in the barman’s direction, and left without paying.

Now with a drink for authenticity, Tom scanned the room for a possible subject for his experimentations. He didn’t want anyone too stubborn and difficult to break on his first attempt, but neither did he want an easy target. There was no honour, no satisfaction, in easy.

Tom rested his eyes on a young blond man who was sitting at the far end of the bar. He was nursing a single brown beer bottle; by the look of him, it wasn’t his first of the night. Tom paced towards the young man.

“Have you got the time?” he asked above the din, exuding a casual charm. The blond man looked up and flushed pink. Tom gripped his concealed wand and took the chance to stare into the bloodshot blue eyes tipped up at him. Silently, he cast the spell. _Legilimens_.

The young man’s mind was a mess of dark brown and sharp-edged objects. It was brittle, like spun glass, and Tom knew all he needed to do was reach out and flick the boy’s mind, and all would come tumbling down. Easy, too easy. With reluctance and mild disdain, Tom pulled himself from the Muggle’s head. The chap was still blushing and stumbling over his own tongue.

“Never mind, then,” Tom said lightly, and turned his back.

The bar was so full; it was going to be hard getting anyone alone. It was as this thought occurred to him that he noticed a booth in the corner. Four young women were standing up to leave, and as they did so, he saw a fifth remain seated. One of the four standing said something to their friend in the booth; she shook her head slightly in reply. The companions shrugged and left, two turning back to wiggle their fingers in a goodbye gesture.

Tom walked over to the nearly deserted booth. The young woman had started reading a newspaper in the absence of her friends. She was older than him by a couple of years, he supposed, but still young. She looked up sharply when she felt his approach. Her eyes were green and rimmed with smoky, dark make-up. She seemed unimpressed with Tom, and a little annoyed at his presence. Before he could send the spell in her direction, she dropped her eyes from his, staring at the drink in his hands. Frustrated, he tried another tactic.

“Pardon me, but is this seat free?” She didn’t look up, but seemed ready to refuse. Tom pre-empted her. “I simply ask because there appears to be only standing room left.” Tom waved vaguely at the crowded bar behind them. A long moment ticked past. Tom remained where he was, trying to look bored and not show the agitation that was churning inside of him.

“Be my guest,” she replied curtly, before disappearing behind the newspaper again.

“I’m much obliged.” Tom slid himself into the opposite booth and took a measured sip of his whisky. It definitely wasn’t Firewhisky. He glanced at the Muggle newspaper in front of him with its stagnant images. He read the headline: _De-rationing of Soap_. Long fingers clutched at the paper’s edges, nails painted a vibrant strawberry-red.

“My name is Marius Echo.”

“Mm.” She didn’t lower the paper. Tom frowned. Glancing around for inspiration, Tom’s eyes latched onto the tiny flickering candle sitting on their table. He fingered the wand in his trouser pocket. Grasping it tighter he thought viciously, _Incendio_!

The newspaper caught alight immediately, startling a cry out of the young woman. Tom reached forward and snatched the burning object from her hands. He calmly put it on the floor and stomped his foot down on the paper until nothing was left but a smouldering mess.

“Are you alright?” Tom asked. He handed back the remains with an apologetic smile.

“Yes. I’m fine. Thank you… fine.” The young woman sighed at the sight of the newspaper and pushed the offending object to the end of the table. “Just rather shocked.”

“Understandable. You didn’t realise how close you were to the flame.”

“I suppose I didn’t,” she murmured distractedly. Reaching into a small handbag, the young woman pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. She tapped the bottom, letting one fall out into her hand. Hesitating, she looked up.

“Would you like one?” Large eyes stared at Tom questioningly. He took the plunge and found himself swimming through her subconscious.

It was quite different to that of the blond boy, but, then again, all minds were unique. This young woman had a mind in varying shades of green, to match her eyes. It was an attractive place mostly, despite the angular structure of it all. Tom peered around, evaluating, calculating. He noticed that where the greens became darker, the mental walls became thicker. These walls wouldn’t simply snap. One last close inspection showed Tom what he wanted, a small fracture. _Perfect_.

“I don’t smoke, thank you,” Tom replied as though he hadn’t just been stalking her mind. The woman blinked rapidly for a moment before pulling her thoughts together. She dipped her cigarette into the flame of the table candle, and then inhaled heavily.

“You never told me your name,” Tom said pleasantly. She let out a curl of grey smoke, the wisp obscuring her face for a moment.

“No. I didn’t, did I? My name is Rosalie.”

“And I am—”

“Echo. Marius Echo. You _did_ tell me yours.” They were silent for a while. Rosalie took another drag of her cigarette while Tom pretended to savour his whisky.

“Why did you really come over here?” Rosalie asked bluntly, flicking ash into the tray provided. Tom considered her for a moment.

“I wanted to see into your mind,” he said quietly, keeping hold of her eyes.

“Is that so? Am I disappointing you?”

A savage grin appeared on Tom’s face. Rosalie looked a little disturbed, but intrigued.

“No. Your mind does not disappoint,” he whispered leaning towards her, reeling her in. Rosalie’s head moved forward slowly. Her lips were parted, and the tip of her tongue came out to lick them in anticipation. She stubbed out the cigarette without looking.

“Let’s hope your body doesn’t disappoint _me_ ,” Rosalie replied. “I don’t live far from here. Come.” Though it was what Tom had been aiming for, he disliked the commanding tone. Swallowing the anger that rose up his throat like bile, he let a seductive smile creep across his face and stood up.

They left the bar, Rosalie slightly ahead of him to guide the way. They didn’t talk. She had been right about living close. They had only to walk down the road and around a corner before she was letting him into an old Victorian house. It had been sectioned off into small flats, and Rosalie led Tom up the stairs and unlocked a door with the number two painted on.

Once Tom had passed the threshold, she closed the door, and he turned to stare at her. The flat was dark, but Rosalie didn’t turn on the lights.

“How old are you?” she asked into the silence.

“Does it matter?”

Rosalie shrugged and dropped her handbag onto a little table by the door. “I wondered if you fought in the war.”

For a brief moment, Tom thought she was referring to the Wizarding War, but only for a moment. He’d travelled for long enough around Europe to see for himself the aftermath of the Muggle War. Even now, five years after its end, the Muggles were still reeling from it.

“No, I didn’t fight.”

“Good,” Rosalie murmured. She had come closer, enough that there was barely any space separating them. Her eyes watched his lips. Tom thrust himself at her, slamming her body into the door and attacking her lips. Rosalie made a muffled sound of shock before fighting his kiss with one of her own. Tom wasn’t going to be gentle with her; he’d seen her mind, and there was nothing _gentle_ about her.

Rosalie’s hands began to undress him, and he returned the favour. Tom liked sex with Muggles; there was something satisfyingly dirty about it. Some wizards went to witches of the night, but Tom enjoyed picking up Muggles.

Rosalie’s fingers were raking up his now bare back, he could feel the nails digging and gouging out his skin. He hissed snake-like as she panted into his ear. Tom dropped his head to her neck and bit, _hard_. Rosalie cried out and jerked convulsively, fingers gripping all the harder. There was something aggressive about this Muggle that aroused Tom and had him answering in kind.

“Shit… touch me,” she ground out between clenched teeth, thrusting her exposed breasts against Tom’s chest. He still didn’t like that commanding tone of hers, so he staved from her breasts for a bit longer, running teeth and tongue along her collarbone.

“Tease,” she said, a tone of frustration evident in her husky voice. Rosalie’s fingers were suddenly at his belt buckle, pulling in a frenzy of impatience. When the belt was loose, she yanked down on the zip. While she worked, Tom took the opportunity to snake his tongue down her throat, one hand finally squeezing her left breast, rolling a pert nipple between his fingers. Her body arched towards him while her head snapped back, banging against the door.

He stroked and teased her, making her gasp and writhe under his able fingers. Warm skin against warm skin. Maddening friction. Tom was enjoying himself; he could feel the manic laughter bubbling in his chest, and he only just stopped the sound from spilling out of his mouth like venom. It excited him that he could do this to her; the thought of plunging into her mind and breaking all her barriers made his erection all the more urgent, pushing against his trousers.

He lifted Rosalie’s right knee with his hand, letting her cradle his hip. Tom pushed up her skirt, sensually, slowly, letting her feel his skin on her bare thighs. She shivered. Tom studied the dark-coloured knickers Rosalie wore. Her eyes were on him watching his every move avidly. Her chest rose and fell in a fast, unsteady rhythm. He leered at her, hooking his fingers into the leg of her knickers, running knuckles against the hot, wet folds of her. Rosalie’s eyes fluttered closed, hips rocking. Her hand reached out, took his straining cock and guiding him to her. He hissed at her touch. Tom’s own breathing became heavy and uneven, and he thrust into her impatiently, causing Rosalie to shout out in pain, glorious pain.

Tom’s mind went blank. He concentrated on his body, the rhythm, the sound of the door rattling in its frame as they banged against it again and again and again. Rosalie came first, crying out hoarsely, body tight. The sound was closer to a whimper of acceptance than of ecstasy. Green eyes locked onto his, and Tom felt for his wand, still in his trouser pocket.

“Legilimens!” he shouted, and in a moment, he found himself inside her mind. It was sparkling and zinging, evidence of her orgasm. Tom found the wall, found the fracture, and, in time with a thrust of his physical body, Tom shouted the words of the curse. _Obscurum Privatus_! A dazzling red light mixed with the green of her mind, creating a poison-coloured haze. The wall wavered, but held.

Tom screamed the words again with another thrust of his body. This time the red light penetrated the shield. Tom gasped and growled as his orgasm overtook him. It was so strong that Tom nearly fell out of Rosalie’s mind. When he could string coherent thoughts together again, he found himself standing in another’s memory.

 

“Welcome to Hell,” a girl said round her cigarette. Tom jerked about to look at the speaker full on. She wore a somewhat bored expression on her dark, pointy face.

“Shut it, Bernadette. Gonna scare the new girl.” The one called Bernadette shrugged and turned her head away, blowing out a steady stream of smoke. The second girl who’d spoken had bright blonde hair, like a child’s, and a ready smile. Tom followed her gaze and found Rosalie. Rosalie was younger, possibly about the same age he was. She looked softer, vulnerable, and a little anxious.

“Don’t mind Bernie. She’s always been a sour so and so. I’m Joyce.”

“Rosalie.”

“Working here really ain’t that bad. Been here for a few months already, and I’ve made loads of friends. I wanted to go into the Land Army at first, but this is what I got.” Joyce waved airily at the big building Bernadette was leaning against. It was a dull-grey monstrosity that bled into the grey sky above it, and the grey paving below it. There was no depth to the scene, or so it looked to Tom. It was as though someone had painted Rosalie’s world with soot and ash.

Tom glanced back at the two girls, waiting for something to happen. Anything. Joyce was chatty and charming, leaving Rosalie to merely nod in response. After a few more uneventful minutes, all the girls that had been gathering outside the building were herded inside by a rotund woman of middling years. Tom heard Joyce whisper that her name was Mrs Kelp.

Tom followed the others, keeping close to Rosalie. They came to a large room with wooden benches along the walls and hooks framing the room. The girls began to strip off their outside clothes immediately, replacing them with uniform white dungarees. Rosalie looked a little unsure of herself, and her fingers were slow at finding the button holes of her cardigan.

Joyce continued to talk inanely about this and that, attempting to put Rosalie more at ease. The girls took out curling pins from their hair and covered their heads with old, stained scarves.

“No! No, no,” Joyce exclaimed at one point, a hand thrown out at Rosalie, who was about to leave her purse behind in the dressing room. Rosalie looked a little taken aback, but Joyce just smiled.

“Don’t want to leave your money there. Might get nicked. Don’t understand some of these girls; I really don’t. My friend Lydia who used to work here, came to work one day in a lovely new pair a heels. You aren’t allowed ‘em, a course, not part of the uniform, see, and when she comes back from her shift, they was gone. She up and walked home barefoot.” Joyce shook her head at the end of her anecdote and helped Rosalie put her meagre handful of coins in a cloth pouch which was then hung from her neck.

The girls were walking away again, and Tom followed, there was nowhere to go in this memory except forward. All the women exited the building to find a single-storey bus waiting. Everyone piled on for the half hour journey to another large grey building. Tom recognised it as a Muggle factory, with its long chimney stacks excreting smoke like giant cigarettes.

Before being allowed inside, the girls were searched by a bored looking woman. They were checked over for anything that would cause a spark: hair pins, and jewellery. Sparks were dangerous in a munitions factory.

The memory began to fade and bleach out until Rosalie’s smiling face was no more.

Tom edged deeper into the woman’s memories, searching. Other scenes presented themselves to him like photographs. Rosalie laughing with Joyce on a pier while they smoked – elbows on railings. A dark, crowded bar with lots of bodies and munitions girls dancing with healthy-looking American GIs. Joyce telling a group of girls a story which had them all gasping for breath. Rosalie working side by side with Joyce in the factory. And Rosalie crying on Joyce’s shoulder as the other girl stroked her hair.

Each memory was fleeting. Tom watched them pass with little interest in investigating them further. His frown grew deeper as he watched these cheerful moments in Rosalie’s life pass by. He needed something to work with. At long last, a memory came hurtling at him; it was dark and thundery, and he could smell the trail of pain left in its wake. Smiling, he walked forward.

Part of the building had been blown apart. Debris was strewn about the ground in large jagged chunks. Wails and harsh sobbing surrounded Tom from all sides. He figured that the stricken factory before him was the same one from the earlier memory.

Curious, he glanced to his right. Rosalie stood beside him, silent, but looking as though she were fighting a loosing battle against her tumbling emotions. She didn’t want to cry, but was so very close. He could feel her shock and terror against his skin. She looked more like the Rosalie he had met in the bar that night, a little older and tired. Her clothes were covered in the dust from the factory rubble, and her hands and face were a strange shade of yellow, as though tainted by some terrible disease. Merlin only knew what chemicals she’d been working with.

“I don’t believe… No, of course not. Never.” Her voice was so quiet in the midst of the chaos that Tom almost didn’t hear her words. He couldn’t understand. Had the factory been hit by an enemy force? It didn’t look bad enough for that, unless the enemy had missed…?

A girl that Tom didn’t recognise came up to where Rosalie was standing in her trance. She was short and stocky, and her uniform was a mess. A bright red gash ran down her face, but otherwise she seemed distinctly unshaken.

“You alright, Rose?”

A jerk of the head as confirmation from Rosalie. “Is it true?”

The other girl didn’t say anything but seemed to understand the question. She hesitated for a moment, looking grim.

“Six dead. Joyce was one of them. She was too close to the blast site – dead before we found her.” Rosalie’s face crumpled. It was as though the weight of the words had smashed her final reserves, leaving her as broken as the factory. She was gasping and jerking like a drowning woman. Tom smiled with excitement. Here at last was a memory that he could use. He stepped out.

Tom mentally held on to the memory of Joyce’s death, keeping the stormy thoughts near him until the time was right. Another memory drifted before him. It was a strange shade of both dark and light, of sun and storm.

A young man was standing on Rosalie’s doorstep. He was tall and handsome, with thick brown hair that showed signs of premature greying. He wore civilian clothes but his left arm was in a sling, and he looked gaunt. A soldier on leave, Tom surmised.

Rosalie was standing with her fingers on the handle of the open door, staring hard at the young man’s face. Tom couldn’t tell if she recognised him or not.

“You are Rosalie Moore, right?” She nodded cautiously.

“I’m… Henry Jenkins.” This knowledge caused a stir in Rosalie’s demeanour. Her face went from recognition, to curiosity, to horror, and finally to pain.

“Yes, please, come in.” The man thanked her and walked slowly into the building’s entrance way, then Rosalie led him silently up the stairs. Once in the flat, the two of them were very awkward. Rosalie was biting down on her lip, and Henry Jenkins was glancing around in all directions, but refused to make eye contact.

“Can I get you a cup of tea?” Rosalie asked into the uncomfortable silence. Her guest smiled slightly.

“Thank you, yes.” Tom watched as Henry sat down, and Rosalie set about making a pot of tea.

“I sent you a letter, after… but I don’t suppose you got it?” she whispered once they were both settled at her tiny table. Rosalie said the words into her chipped tea cup.

“No. I was already on me way home on leave. Found out from her landlady, were told I should find you. I couldn’t for a while, mind. Needed to get me head round it. Joy wrote a lot about you in her letters.” Henry spoke in a slow, soft voice. It seemed to have a calming effect on Rosalie.

“Joyce talked a lot about you, too,” Rosalie replied. “She was so worried about you being in France, but she never let it show to the others. Kept calling you her Heroic Henry.” The young man looked away sharply, eyes bright and mouth stretched in a thin line.

“I’m sorry. Do you want me to stop?” Rosalie asked. Henry sighed and shook his head.

“Were you with her when she died?”

“No. I had left my station to run an errand. If I hadn’t, I might have… I was told that she didn’t suffer; she died instantly. It was a mistake, a stupid accident. They still don’t know how the spark started.” Both were quiet again. Rosalie had tears on her cheeks but didn’t wipe them away. She continued to stare into her tea without drinking it, letting it grow cold in her hands.

“I did love her,” Henry stated abruptly. Rosalie glanced up.

“I know. I miss her everyday; I can only imagine how you –” Henry shook his head, and Rosalie shut her mouth.

“You don’t understand. I loved her. I’ve known Joy since we was little, even then we talked about getting married one day. She was me best friend.” A long pause. “But… as much as I loved her, I knew I couldn’t go through with marrying her. Not once I’d been to France and seen them things. I didn’t love her that way, not anymore. I didn’t want her to marry me only to find out what a wreck I was. Wouldn’t be fair. I came home to try and find a way to tell her and then…” Henry broke off as his voice choked up.

Tom watched Rosalie get up from her chair, move round the table, and wrap her arms around the young man’s neck. Henry cried into her stomach, his one good arm entwined around her waist.

The memory faded.

Once out, Tom was able to narrow his search. He knew now what he was looking for, and in no time, he found it. The memory was of Rosalie lying in a tousled bed of white linen, naked and barely awake. Beside her slept Henry.

Tom discovered a lot of these memories. Rosalie and Henry seemed to have spent the remainder of his leave together, talking or having sex, and drinking more tea while huddled together on a sofa. He sensed the guilt the woman felt at sleeping with her dead friend’s betrothed. The feelings of love and betrayal were inextricably linked in every memory Rosalie had of Henry. She had fallen in love. Tom sneered at the realisation. Love was for the weak.

Neither Henry nor Rosalie talked about what they felt. They fucked each other like they wanted to escape something, everything, as though trying to get close enough that they might merge together. At last, Henry’s leave was up. His arm was healed, and he was needed in France. Rosalie saw him off, face grim, hands grasping at her scarf with white knuckles. Henry looked into her face and then kissed her slowly, like a promise. He only said three words against her lips: _Wait for me_.

The memory that followed was almost beautiful in its black, intricate pain. This was noticeably the worst in Rosalie’s mind. Tom stroked the memory with a long finger, a caress.

He was standing behind Rosalie. She held a telegram in trembling hands. He read the brief message over her shoulder.

_Dear Miss Moore,_  
We regret to inform you that Private Jenkins was killed in the line of duty on 8th February. He died bravely, doing his service to Crown and Country. He felt no pain at the end. We will miss him greatly and our thoughts go out to you at this time.  
Kind Regards,  
Captain P. L. David, 86th Regiment

A noise, halfway between a scream and a sob, ripped from Rosalie’s mouth like a banshee. The letter fluttered to the floor, hated. Rosalie followed it a moment later.

It was as though Tom had found a pot of gold. Not the fake transient kind from mischievous leprechauns, but real gold from the deepest vaults of Gringotts. He gathered to himself Rosalie’s memories, hugging them against his chest with malicious glee. He began to move away from the dark recesses of her mind towards the light. The memories struggled against him, as if they were alive. They didn’t want his touch or the stark light he was carrying them towards. Tom held on tight.

It was as he was making his way forward that he noticed one last memory. It was a curious thing. It showed signs of pain and shock but from more of a distance, as though the memory was simply a reflection. Tom saw newspaper headings: _‘Little Boy’ Dropped On Hiroshima, Thousands Dead in an Instant; Destruction, Devastation and Death; Nagasaki - Same Fate as Hiroshima; Japan Surrenders._

Confusion filled Tom, and something solid and heavy took root in his mind. He disliked the sudden weight and tried to shake it away, tried to rationalise what he’d seen. The ability to kill so many within moments was not a gift that Muggles possessed. Muggles were not that strong. It was a fact that he’d known for a long time. They didn’t have any power, and they certainly didn’t have magic. The only explanation of this destruction was that a powerful wizard had been behind it. Tom detested mysteries and swatted the memory away from him like a fly. He didn’t need it for his purposes here.

Tom finally brought Rosalie’s memories to the fore. The pain of their presence was physical, and her mind cried out in anguish. Tom ignored the roiling emotions that now surrounded him, a sudden sea of crashing and whimpering green.

First he took the scene of Joyce’s death and concentrated. Tom knew what he wanted, and it would not be very hard to change one minute detail. He again saw the squat woman with the gash in her cheek. He sent a tiny spell into the wavering memory, and the woman’s words changed. _The explosion… it was set off by a hair pin, we think_.

So easy, thought Tom. That was the problem with love. Love left you open, vulnerable, and susceptible to manipulation. It was Rosalie’s own fault.

Next he conjured up a fake memory. These were technically harder to achieve, but still Tom had no real problem, as the memory was small, and Rosalie’s mind had become as easy to mould as warm wax. He implanted an image of Rosalie’s fingers passing over a pin in her hair, just a tiny mistake. Implanting doubt was easy, a simple nudge.

 _Did I take it out? Was it me?_ Rosalie’s voice echoed through her mind, confused and slightly panicked.

As Rosalie began to question herself with growing anxiety, Tom gathered to him the memory of her first meeting with Henry. This time he changed Rosalie’s actions. The hug she gave Henry was not consoling or platonic, but that of a predator. There was now the glint of greed and lust in her eyes. Tom felt Rosalie’s mind jolt violently at the change, and he had to hold tight. She did not want him there; he was a virus sickening her mind, and her body was fighting. Tom just laughed. It was too late now; he could hear Rosalie’s doubt.

_The pin. I forgot the pin…it was because of me that Joyce died. And Henry. I threw myself at him when Joyce was not even cold in her grave…_

Tom let her tampered thoughts work themselves into a frenzy. Then, with a simple mixing spell, the kind used to stir a caldron, Tom sent her memories and thoughts on a never ending loop. She would have no choice but to dwell on her fake memories and stew in her guilt. With great satisfaction, Tom left her mind.

When he opened his eyes, it was suddenly very dark. He was leaning up against Rosalie, and he was still inside of her. No time had passed. Her breathing was still uneven, and the sweat on her chest hadn’t dried. Tom pulled himself off her and began to straighten his clothes, fastening his belt and buttoning his shirt. He did it with clinical precision, almost pedantic in his attention to detail.

Finally he studied Rosalie. She was now crouched in front of the door, staring at something which Tom could not see. Rosalie didn’t move to cover her nakedness or even glance in his direction. It was as though he wasn’t there. Rosalie was surrounded by the ghosts of her past. She wept.

Smiling to himself, Tom stepped over her and opened the door. He left without looking back; he left her lost in memories.

 

  
**July 1951: Osaka, Japan**   


Tom threw down the parasol with disgust. He had never enjoyed travelling by Portkey, detesting that odd pull at his navel and the feeling of being squeezed through a small hole. There was something undignified about it.

Rolling his shoulders, Tom looked about him with narrowed eyes. He was in a small walled garden with a single tree at its centre. The sun was bright and hot, and the air felt sticky. Tom’s jaw clenched, grinding his teeth together with irritation.

“ _Konichiwa_ , Tom-san” a male voice said from behind him. Tom turned to face the speaker. The man was small of stature with slanting black eyes and a grim line for a mouth.

“ _Konichiwa_ , Kenji-san,” Tom replied, inclining his head slightly.

“We have much to talk about, do we not? I have tea inside.” Kenji’s voice was heavily accented but his speech was correct, right down to the occasional English turn of phrase. Tom followed the man out of the courtyard with some relief, glad to be out of the harsh sun. Once they were kneeling at a low table with a steaming cup of green tea, Tom’s host spoke again.

“Your owl was most fascinating, Tom-san. You sent it from Cairo, I believe?” Tom nodded.

“I have heard many interesting things about Project Phoenix. How did you find it?”

Tom had stayed for a brief time in Cairo. He’d been interested in an underground research group that experimented on phoenixes and their regenerative capabilities. The prospect of eternal life, the idea that death was _possible_ to overcome, very much excited him.

“Some fascinating and progressive work. However, they are a long way from finding out all the answers, certainly in terms of wizarding use. Very early days.”

“And the Egyptian authorities?” Kenji queried.

“Causing hassle,” Tom said and laughed humourlessly. “It’s against their laws to experiment with magical creatures, particularly as these experimentations cause, er… _premature regeneration_.”

Tom almost chuckled at the polite term used by the wizards in Cairo. To Tom, killing was killing. What did it matter what terms one used? In any case, phoenixes could come back to life, so what was the harm?

The little man nodded sagely, but otherwise moved not a jot. Tom was getting uncomfortable kneeling on the floor, but schooled his features not to show his discomfort.

“Thank you for answering my questions, Tom-san, but that is not why you came. Now, I think I can offer some of the information you were seeking.”

For the next half hour, the two men spoke of magic and objects of dark power. Tom had heard many interesting tales of the infamous _kami_ , Oka Kenji, and his unrivalled collection of amulets and dark magic trinkets. However, the most intriguing rumour had been that Kenji was the first to have split his soul more than once. Some dark wizards in the past had made Horcruxes, but as far as anyone knew, they stopped at that single split. Oka Kenji had not.

“Kenji-san,” Tom began after a lull in their conversation, when the kami was busy refilling teacups. “I am most interested in hearing about your work with Horcruxes.” There was a pregnant pause, and Tom watched the other man’s shrewd face.

“At last, you speak of what you really want.” Kenji nodded in satisfaction. “If you will follow me, I have something you might be interested in seeing.”

Kenji led them out of the room into a wide, wood panelled corridor. Tom looked around with mild interest. The home was beautiful in a foreign sort of way. It seemed Kenji didn’t simply collect objects of the dark arts, but any artefact that took his fancy. There were vases, statues, carvings, musical instruments, ornamental wands, giant fans – all proudly displayed and well cared for.

As they turned into another wooden corridor, Tom was confronted with a huge tapestry blazing with red and orange and yellow. It hung on the left wall of the passage, burning the hall with its brightness. His steps slowed. Kenji noticed where Tom’s attention was directed and glanced at the tapestry with his cold little eyes.

“It depicts the _kami_ Amaterasu leaving the cave she exiled herself to. When she came out she brought with her all the light of the world and we were no longer in darkness,” Kenji explained.

“Amaterasu. I’ve read about her,” murmured Tom, studying the face of the goddess in the tapestry.

“Yes, she is very important to Shinto.”

“Even to the Muggles?” Kenji looked at him for a moment with a frown. Tom elaborated. “Even those not like _us_? They believed in her?”

“Hn. Yes. First and foremost we are Japanese. Secondly, there are we _kami_ and those that are not – the Others.” He paused. “Beings like Amaterasu are the real _kami_ , but it is also the term the Others use for us. They are fools. They think we are equal with the likes of Amaterasu. So little they know. We are what a grain of sand is to a mountain.” Tom didn’t much like the sound of that and had to keep from sneering.

“Was Amaterasu real?”

“Was your Merlin real?” Kenji barked back. Tom clenched his jaw at the tone but didn’t answer. The other man turned and walked through a doorway. Tom followed him into a large, immaculate study.

Kenji faced a black lacquered cupboard that stood on four spindly legs. It was delicate and beautiful, with white shell inlay made into an intricate design of herons and cherry blossoms. The man took out a little key that hung around his neck and unlocked the cupboard doors. Tom could not see what was inside. He waited impatiently. Finally, with great care, Kenji turned.

Before him Kenji carried a wooden chest which he set gently on his desk. Once unlocked, Tom could see that the chest contained two objects. Both were round, the same size as a bludger, but one was made of solid wood and the other of ivory.

“These are my Horcruxes, each containing a fragment of my soul.”

Tom was in awe, utterly captivated. He wanted to pick them up, roll them in his hands, and feel their weight in his palm. He liked that idea: holding someone’s soul in the palm of his hand. Tom glanced up to see Kenji staring at the two objects with something like pride.

“What made you choose to do this?” Tom asked the man. Kenji didn’t look up.

“I am a black magic scholar, I want to push boundaries and discover new things. I am an explorer.”

“Even if pushing those boundaries means testing their limits on yourself?”

Kenji tore his eyes from the Horcruxes to stare at Tom. “To make a Horcrux is not like using other dark magic, Tom-san. I tried forcing this on others, making them kill and attempt to detach a fragment of their soul. Not once did it work. I came to the conclusion that the intent to kill was not theirs, leaving the soul… bruised, but not broken.” Kenji sighed. “So I attempted it on myself, and it worked.”

“So I see. Who did you kill?”

Kenji scowled slightly. “No one important. No one missed.”

Tom wanted more details but left the subject alone.

“I wonder… do you know what would happen if one of your Horcruxes were destroyed? I have always pondered what it must feel like.”

“That I do not know,” the man said pensively. “Perhaps one day I will make the ultimate sacrifice for my studies and destroy one of these, perhaps both. For now, if you wish to know more, you must test your own boundaries.” Kenji looked at Tom pointedly with his dark, dark eyes.

“So you don’t know what pain it would cause you if one of your Horcruxes were to be destroyed?”

“No, Tom-san, I can only hypothesise. Perhaps I will feel nothing. Perhaps I will feel everything.” They were both silent for a time, just staring at the two spheres nestled in the box. Finally, Kenji closed the box gently and locked it with a second key. Tom watched carefully, keeping his face smooth and his emotions in check.

_Not long now…_

When Kenji had gathered the chest in his arms Tom whipped out his wand and cried, “ _Petrificus Totalus_!” The other man didn’t even have a chance to counter the curse. Kenji’s arms slammed to his sides, dropping the chest he’d been carrying. His body went rock-rigid and he swayed for a moment before toppling backwards onto the floor.

Tom moved round the desk to look at his victim. Kenji’s eyes strained to keep him in full view. They were intense with shock and stormy anger. Tom laughed, a sound like the hissing of a snake.

“So slow, Kenji- _san_ ,” Tom crooned with a sinister smile. “I had expected more of a fight from the infamous Oka Kenji. But no matter.” Tom reached forward and yanked the chain from round Kenji’s neck. He gripped the key in a fist, like a well-won trophy. Tom stepped over the prostrate figure to the wooden chest. Kenji’s eyes grew wider as more panic filled his body. Tom paid him no heed.

“So trusting, Kenji-san. You should have known better, and to put both Horcruxes in the same place… not wise.” By now Tom had opened the chest and was holding the ivory sphere up to his face for inspection. Kenji made no sound, but his eyes were rolling in fevered frustration. It looked as though he were having a seizure.

“It was kind of you to do all this research for me. Now I wish to finish your studies. I wonder if you will feel… _everything_ , as you put it.” Tom stood up from his crouch beside the fallen _kami_ and placed the Horcrux on the desk. He considered his repertoire of curses that would suitably destroy such a dark magic object. If it was a piece of soul, was it not susceptible to the Killing Curse? Tom took up a duelling stance and pointed his wand at the Horcrux.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!” The room erupted in a blinding green light and the sound of a roaring wind. Tom could feel the physical presence of the dark magic exploding and ricocheting around the room. He staggered backwards as though punched. When the supernatural light of the curse had faded, Tom saw that the ivory sphere was aflame. He watched as the fire consumed the remnants of the object; he knew he’d destroyed it.

Tom’s eyes darted towards the wizard, gauging his reaction. Though Kenji couldn’t move, his eyes were directed unwaveringly at Tom. There was hate and despair and… surely that was pain in there too? A Horcrux would cause pain when destroyed. That made sense to Tom. He didn’t like the idea, but he could handle pain. It was better than feeling nothing and having no warning at all. Someone could stealthily destroy one Horcrux after another, and he’d be none the wiser. To Tom’s mind, that was far more dangerous.

He took the final sphere, the one made of cherry wood, and placed it on the desk. Tom repeated the curse with fervent gusto. It was soon a smouldering heap.

_So much satisfaction in the destruction._

Slowly, Tom walked over to where Kenji lay rigid and silent. He said nothing for a long while, staring into Kenji’s scared eyes, studying the man who’d lost two thirds of his soul. At last he sighed and pointed his wand at the fallen _kami_.

“You would have done well to remember that I don’t go by Tom…” For a third time he uttered the powerful words of the Killing Curse. The green light vanished to reveal two blank eyes. Leaning in towards the dead man, Tom whispered,

“I am Lord Voldemort.”

 

Tom spent the rest of the evening looking through Oka Kenji’s office. He found numerous dark artefacts that fascinated him. He couldn’t wait to experiment with them, find out their various qualities. Kenji had hundreds of scrolls and books in every language imaginable. Much to Tom’s irritation, Kenji’s extensive personal files were entirely in Japanese. He’d have to cast a strong translation spell before the work would be any use to him.

Upon further inspection of the study, Tom found a small bowl that looked as though it had been carved from ice; a pensieve. Opaque strands of thoughts and memories drifted within it, but even as Tom watched the strands were disappearing. Though memories could exist outside the body they originated from, they still needed a living link.

Tom hesitated for only a moment before placing a hand, palm up, on the surface of the pensieve. A memory in muted grey flowed into his palm immediately. Clenching it tightly, Tom lifted it to his temple and closed his eyes. He felt the memory touch his skin like the brush of a feather.

 

The first thing Tom noticed was the smell. He knew that smell, of thick smoke, of burning flesh and hair. Few memories had ever had such a powerful scent recollection and Tom was momentarily thrown. Opening his eyes Tom saw a landscape like nothing he’d ever witnessed in his life. A great disaster had been here. The debris of what once had been buildings, homes, a prosperous city – lay everywhere. To his right stood the bare framework for a building that must have been tall and stately once. Now it was a skeleton, standing alone against the dark sky.

A movement to his right brought him back – a younger Oka Kenji stood beside him. He was wearing a fine embroidered robe of deep red and fluted sleeves. Vibrant in a landscape of ash. Kenji said nothing and did not move – only his eyes darted back and forth unable to land on any one thing. A glance at the skeleton of a large building, then at the rubble beneath his feet, then at a Muggle woman, naked and scorched and wailing, then at the sky. Tom’s thoughts began to whirl into action as Kenji observed silently. The _kami_ appeared struck senseless. Who was this aggressor, this wizard of such potent strength and abilities – if he was still alive why hadn’t Tom ever heard of him? Tom resolved to find out all he could. As his thoughts and plans crystallised, Kenji was joined by other _kami_. Most arrived by broom, there were not portkeys and certainly no fireplaces left standing. One _kami_ in blue ceremonial robes of a similar design to Kenji’s, let slip an oath.

“We felt it,” he said. “From miles away… could see if from Osaka.”

“What was it?” asked another _kami_ in gold.

Tom shivered; the wind was so cold. It was bitterly, bitterly cold. Ash still floated down from the sky, raining on Tom’s skin.

“What of Genda Akio?” a young _kami_ asked, face pale.

“No. Dead.”

“Eto Masaru?”

A shake of the head. Someone swore.

“Tanizaki Hiroto is missing, too. I can’t imagine he survived though. Not this.”

Two bleeding Muggles rushed past, a woman was slung between them. Tom could see that her clothes had been burned away, but the patterned remained, permanently scorched into her skin. Black flowers charred into her soft stomach and small breasts. Tom and the _kami_ watched in stillness as the Muggles scrabbled across the rubble of their flattened city.

“No _kami_ could do this,” one man whispered into the silent group.

“But, the Others? Surely they do not possess this kind of power…?” someone said, mirroring Tom’s own thoughts. “It is complete destruction.”

“A new technology? How did they become so advanced?” asked a kami in orange and red, garish in an otherwise monochrome world.

“We were complacent. We thought them fools, but they proved us the fools,” Kenji said, voice shaking, hunkered down and running quivering fingers through the ash. “We can no longer underestimate their capacity to destroy. They are masters of their own destruction.”

There was more silence at this proclamation, heads bowed as though they were praying, a funeral party for the death of their city. The ash continued to fall.

 

Tom opened his eyes back in Kenji’s office, feeling more winded and confused than he had in years. This couldn’t be true. Why had nobody told him of the Muggle’s true powers? Not magic, but something vicious and bigger than he could ever have imagined. They didn’t deserve to walk in plain view, didn’t deserve to walk at all. Too long they’d marginalised the wizarding world and too long the wizarding world had thought this was how it should be. Liberal wizards like Albus Dumbledore used cheap rhetoric like a childish charm, spouting nonsense about the Muggle capacity for acceptance and love. Tom had never believed it but now he had proof, had witnessed through Oka Kenji’s dying memories the power and folly of Muggles.

Tom vowed – then and there in Oka Kenji’s office, afternoon sun streaming into the quiet space – that he would eradicate the Muggle problem before they took the chance to eradicated wizard-kind. Every last one was worthy of death and he would make it so.

 

  
**October 1957: Middlesex, England**   


“If you’ll follow me, Sir, she’s been brought to the Visitor’s Room for you,” the doctor said. His eyes were vacant, an expression left by the _Cunfundus_ charm. Tom Riddle said nothing as they started down an echoing corridor.

The inside of the building was ornate just as ornate as the outside, a subtle homage to the Gothic revival architecture. Made predominantly of sand-coloured brick and slate roofs, it boasted a solarium, hundreds of grandiose archways and six miles of corridors. Its various wings sprawled across fourteen acres of parkland in Middlesex, just north of London. The estate was beautiful. All that marred it was the sombre sky threatening snow and the bars at the windows. A weatherworn sign outside the front gatehouse had read: _Friern Hospital_.

“She’s never had a visitor before,” continued the doctor dully. They turned a corner and another hallway stretched into infinity.

“Her condition?” Tom asked, voice revealing a slight hiss.

“Oh. She has improved over the years. When she first came to us she was almost wild. She was so desperate to leave, and I don’t mean the hospital itself. She tried to kill herself more times than I can count. She cried a great deal. None of the doctors or staff could get through to her. Eventually she stopped crying and attempting suicide. She stopped fighting altogether.” The doctor paused. “Don’t expect her to speak.”

Finally the doctor stopped outside a door and gestured towards it. “She’s in there,” he said and walked away.

Tom opened the door.

The room was cavernous making every noise magnified threefold. The walls were painted white, reflecting the harsh glare of the electric lights. In the centre of this bright prison-like room sat a woman. Rosalie.

She didn’t look up as Tom approached but stared at one of the four walls with a sad expression on her aged face. The years had not been kind to Rosalie. Once a very pretty young woman, she was now prematurely grey and wrinkled. Her posture was hunched and so very fragile. She looked broken.

“We meet again,” Tom said, conjuring up a green leather armchair. Rosalie said nothing. “It has been a long time, has it not?” Tom narrowed his eyes. “You know, I never intended to see you again. Forgot, actually, that you were so instrumental in my early experiments. But I just so happened to be in the country again, here about a… teaching position. Can you hear me, Mudblood? ”

Rosalie didn’t look at him and Tom tapped her knee with his wand. She flinched. Tom smiled.

“So you do remember me. Then you will know what to expect now, hm?” Tom pointed his wand at Rosalie, who flinched back further in her chair, soft, desperate sounds emitting from the back of her throat. He uttered the now familiar Legilimens curse.

Rosalie’s mind was no longer green, not like how Tom remembered. It was dark and bare, like someone had taken out all the furnishings of her mind and locked the door, curtains drawn. He walked around empty landscape, looking for signs of his earlier work. The only sign that Rosalie’s subconscious was aware of his presence was a steady darkening, like the sun going down. It felt cold.

Then suddenly there it was, what Tom had been looking for. In front of him was a string of blurred, cloudy memories, moving slowly in a circle, around and around. It was fascinating really. His stirring charm had worked so well that even now its effects could be felt, albeit to a far lesser degree. Tom reached out a hand and stroked the memories, remembering their feel and the exaltation it had given him seven years ago when he’d first touched them.

Tom wondered how much longer the stirring spell would keep moving for him, if it would ever stop or just keep on going until Rosalie’s body gave up. He considered giving it another spin, see what happened, but decided against it. What would be the point? After all, he never planned on coming back to check on his work again. The experiment was over. He stepped from Rosalie’s mind for the final time.

Her eyes were wide and fearful, though still she did not look at him. Rosalie’s fingers tapped out a frantic, staccato rhythm onto her lap. Her hands were gnarled, as though the past seven years she had been clawing at something she couldn’t reach.

“I always knew Muggles were scum,” Tom said after a moment of silence. “Too long we’ve let them dictate how we live, hiding from them like rats. We let them live in a world meant for wizards. Always knew that. But then I met you and I saw your memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki. I never forgot. I never will. Wizards are not the only beings with capacity to kill and I underestimated these fucking Mudbloods. They wish to kill themselves? Fine. What does it matter if I . . . help them along?”

Tom cocked his head to the side, watching Rosalie with a sickly smile. “Perhaps I should start with you? Yes, you know, I _shall_.” He leaned forward and stroked a finger down the side of Rosalie’s face, his nail raising a pink mark from cheekbone to chin. For the first time since he’d entered the room, Rosalie turned green eyes on him, looked right into her death.

“ _Avada Kedavra_!”

 

Tom looked into the clouds, low and heavy with unshed rain. Stay any longer and the sky would open on top of him. Two men in dark hooded robes walked towards him, seemingly from thin air. One was of medium height with broad shoulders and sandy hair, the second nondescript except for his piercing grey eyes. They approached him slowly. Tom smiled at his handpicked followers – he called them his _Death Eaters_.

“My Lord?” asked Avery, in his soft deferential voice. “Where to now?”

“Hogsmede,” Tom replied, watching Mulciber’s surprise and the glint in Avery’s grey eyes. “I have an appointment in the morning with one Albus Dumbledore, newly instated Headmaster of Hogwarts.”

“Dumbledore? My Lord, what could you have to say to that Mudblood lover?” Mulciber asked, voice heavy with disgust. Tom pinned him with a serpentine glare.

“All in good time, Mulciber. I will meet you both at _The Hog’s Head_. Dismissed.” The assonance on Tom’s s’s was more pronounced when he was displeased, hissing out of him like steam. Both Death Eaters bowed their heads and a moment later two loud _cracks_ reverberated in the deserted lane, signalling their departure.

Tom took one final glance at the vast swirl of storm clouds above, reminding him of Rosalie’s tortured mind. Beautiful. He Apperated away just as the first raindrops fell.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to dedicate this fic, so long in the making, to my best friend (RC) because you told me to finish the bloody thing. So, four years late, I have. For you.


End file.
